


Threads of Tradition

by orphan_account



Series: Thaw of Winter's Chill [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abstinence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Courtship, Cultural Differences, Culture Shock, Everybody Lives, Fluff, Inner Dialogue, M/M, Marriage, No Sex, Politethief, Prompt Fic, Thaw of Winter's Chill, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Traditions, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr Prompt, Underthemistymountain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 00:02:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erebor was a land of tradition; traditions of strange and unknown reasons which addled the hobbit's mind. By his care for the dwarf he stayed, learning and changing, accepting the different culture and calling it his own. However, the strain of books, religion, and language could never hold a flame to the solitude that crept in the lonesome nights; racking his mind, and stealing his sleep. The Halls of Erebor could never be Bag End, and the hobbit could never be a dwarf, but a letter could steal away the doubt, and ease the conjoined souls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Threads of Tradition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Underthemistymountain](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Underthemistymountain).



The endless barrage of ceremony had ceased for yet another night. Countless days Bilbo had faced the court’s of the dwarves, greeting and regreeting in the same worn and tattered Khuzdul before all conversing ultimately ebbed into Westron. Though his company did not seem to mind his lack of knowledge, and only appreciated his effort, every day seemed to end in a self-loathing, hinged on frustration. There were soft whispers he heard of the dwarvish tongue, a dialect he had no mind for despite his studies and attempts; a world he tried endlessly to understand only to be lost in a infinite weaving rope of traditions. Truthfully he knew the words were of respect and care, but a doubt lingered, curling about his fingers and anchoring his tongue.

All these things would have been nothing if he were to see the smile of his King; to hear words of affirmation, but sadly tradition again would have it another way. Separate rooms, separate halls, separated in distance, but not yet in mind. Each night filled with discontent as his shoulders rolled about, knees curling, and hands grasping all to find yet another sleepless night.

But when he saw their smiles, heard the dwarves laughter, it was all made right. In an instant, a wave could brush past all the hurt and anguish and leave him with a lightened heart; a heart of joy and peace. He took his place, standing next to the throne, listening to the dwarrow that came to call, blessing their union. Sometimes, in a chaste act of love, his hand would be held— a fleeting kiss to the cheek. His days lived on small moments of forgotten passion, ghosting touches, and it was these that eased the frustration in his heart. It made the times away bearable, it made the poison of loneliness scurry away, only for it to try again later that night, when a solitary bed welcomed him with icy sheets.

His love was a damning thing, for he desired the touch and warmth of his lover, to caress away the worries and stresses, and to again be the couple of Bag End. It was Bilbo’s love that caused the upturn of his heart, the joy in his soul everyday when he saw Thorin, dressed in Kingly garb, a smile brushing his features. Oh how he loved to see Thorin smile, for it had been a rare sight on their quest. Even though the expression was more common now, he still relished every upturn of those lips. But still, it was his love that made his soul cry out with loneliness. Never too close could they stand, never dare they linger too long in each other’s gaze, even the breifest of moments alone were forbidden. Despite whatever happened before they arrived, despite the fact that to Bilbo they were very much married, the two had to remain, or at least appear to be as unblemished as virgin snow. And by whatever love the hobbit held for the dwarf Lord, he abided by the dwarvish customs.

However, as night lingered ever closer Bilbo felt a heaviness in his heart. Though it may have very well been his own sorrow, he felt as if it were more than that. As Their Day approached, the hobbit had been growing ever anxious, a gnawing sensation at his heart while butterflies fluttered freely in his stomach. Bilbo could only think there was an air of apprehension lingering between both mates, as they waited. Months had passed with naught to pass the loneliness but stolen time; holding one another, both stopping themselves after a barely-there kiss, less a downward spiral of passion occur. This however was different, it was not the consuming and clenching need of lust, it was a dull and subtle ache; weariness.

Bilbo’s shoulders rose from the bed, sheets tossing off of his body as the air took his skin, raising the hackles of his neck. Pulling back the heavily dyed curtains of his bedpost, the hobbit pressed his calloused toes to the stone. Many time it had been mentioned, for a cobbler to fashion him a pair of shoes, and everytime he had refused, for he found dwarvish clothing to be quite the nuisance, and shoes would be perhaps the most cumbersome of all. He would have no part of it, despite the wailing of advisors. And so, bare toes to the ground, the hobbit stumbled his way through the dark, taking some kindling he had placed near his small fireplace, Bilbo lit the bundle of twigs and straw in the dying embers only to light the wick of a candle resting nearby. Grasping his robe, and fastening it tightly about his waist, the hobbit ventured out, hands cupped delicately around the dancing flame.

Which reminded him, he had dance lessons the following morning. Awfully tedious dances of heavy feet, and twisting circles, certainly not the light-hearted and free natured dances of hobbits of the Shire… And still, they held a charm, the rhythmic clapping as the newly-weds curl towards the center, family and close friends encircling them. Singing, stomping, and endless array of music to celebrate the union. Though heavy and strange, the jovial nature of the hobbit enjoyed dancing.

Despite this, Bilbo crept out of his chambers, head peering in either direction before he continued on. The winding halls of the dwarven realm gave little comfort to the hobbit, for their great stature was overwhelming. Halls as tall as spyres and carvings perhaps as tall as the mountain itself. These halls were not the ones he was searching for, however. The twisting path lead down one hall, and past three more on a maze like journey until he saw it, a large woven tapestry, hanging up from the height of the ceiling, and tassels fluttering just above the floor. On it, a mural of a raven atop a tree of new blossoms. It was indeed a brilliant piece, for within the lengths of the trees, twisting in paths of forgotten memories were crests of the line of Durin, amongst other markers of great Dwarf history. Singed edges curled, but still every thread held its place like a silent prayer for the family.

Gently placing the candle and it’s holder on the stoney floor, Bilbo moved towards the tapestry, flipping up it’s edges to gaze at the rock beneath. He had been told once of the great hidden paths leading all through the mountainside. Rumor had come to him of a particular path that laid behind the twisting threads of Durin’s line. Fili was tasked with watching over him, guiding him in the ways of the dwarves, and by that he knew of the hobbit’s worrisome nature, and edging anxiety. It had been a subtle enough of a hint, lined with a riddle to grasp his attention; though it was indeed a poor riddle for there were few tapestries, and only one was of the line of Durin, others dedicated to great battles.

Pulling the tapestry further back the edge of the tassels knocked the flame from the candle, leaving him once more in the dark. A defeated sigh poured heavily from his nostrils as his head pressed to the cool stone.

“These dwarves and their hidden doors. How do they expect to find them when they are invisible? And in the dark, no less…” Slowly lifting his head, and peering straight through the darkness, Bilbo pressed his fingers around until finally the familiar sound of stone sliding indicated that he had indeed opened the passage. Pushing the entrance open a bit more the hobbit slithered his way past the stone work before closing the door behind him with a gut-wrenching ‘thud’.

Hand pressed to the wall, guiding him through the darkness of the tunnel, Bilbo awaited with silent hopes of where he hoped this path would lead. As the time passed with faster hand in Bilbo’s mind than in reality, he felt himself stumbling around in the dank air of the tunnels for what seemed like ages. In truth, he was slow, edging his way hesitantly through the dark like a toddler first finding foot, but in time he grew bolder, faster. And then, he saw something: the faintest shimmering of light crawling along the outline of stone. Tumbling over his feet in a rushed attempt to reach the door, Bilbo pushed the door open, nearly falling in the process. However, as the rock pressed open the light of the King’s chambers swarmed his eyes. Blinking, and rubbing his eyes, the hobbit pressed further into the room.

The chambers were as he remembered them, ornate and perfect in all ways. A very large bed filled the center of the room, with a vast array of silks and furs piled upon it. On one table, just as before rested a pile of fruits and wine, and next to the King’s bed a lantern which imparted the room with the scent of lavender. A blush crept along the hobbit’s cheekbones, fingers curling about one of the chairs next to a large desk of stained wood. Plopping down with a heavy sigh, the weight of his fall knocked aside some parchment, and one particular piece fluttered to the floor beneath his leathery feet. Hurriedly picking it up, he placed it face-side down on the wood, daring not look at it.

Surely, it would be rude.

A nagging sensation took hold of Bilbo’s chest, urging him to read only the first line as he awaited. Stomping his feet, the hobbit attempted to banish the thoughts of the letter, but still in his mind, were lingering words that he saw when picking it up. His name was mentioned. A bombardment of questions filled the hobbit’s mind, swirling about, twisting and gnawing at his mind. Doubt, a dangerous thought; ever it lingers, and when sensitivity strikes, it striking at the heart, dragging it in a spiral downwards.

Jolting, Bilbo reached for the parchment, eyes scrolling over quickly as he read. And then again, slower this time, a sad smile pulling at his lips and lifting his soul.

How dare he ever question his love.

~

 

I am soon to depart on my journey to visit my dear hobbit, and my mind could not be more restless. Come the first light of morn, a new chapter in my life will hopefully begin. This visit is not simply for leisure or reminiscing about old times. It serves as a means to make up to Bilbo for the way I had treated him five years ago. I was sick, not in my right mind, and I nearly failed my people, kin, dear friends, and the one I loved the most.

Though we have exchanged letters back and forth over these years, mostly after my healing process was complete and I had gotten over the grief and guilt I felt (though the guilt does still rattle deep within on long, lonely nights), I cannot help but feel that he still doubts me, worries for me and my well-being. Oh, how surprised he will be when he sees how I have recovered.

Not only do I wish to apologize and tell tales of my now flourishing reign, but I have a gift to present to him. The finest beads that I have hand-crafted myself (though I am still not pleased with my work, I suppose my skills have diminished in my old age) set with the bits of the broken, cleansed Arkenstone. It will be a token of my love and hopefully a binding of our souls and hearts in this life.

Should he accept the gift (if he even does feel the same way that we expressed that night so long ago) the next step would be to bring him to Erebor. I will not get ahead of myself, but a fine ceremony will be planned in that case.

I suppose I am simply writing to work out my nerves, for I worry that I will have been forgotten about, moved on from. If that was the case and we should only remain friends, I would wholly understand. I would not love someone like me, either.

I will provide more details of my travels in the coming days.

-Thorin II Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain

~

 

The blissful sadness that rimmed Bilbo’s eyes finally broke away after the third reading, cheeks upturning and filling out with a smile. In all that he read in the diary, Bilbo found happiness, but lingering in the words was the doubt that Thorin held for himself. The hobbit could only hope that whatever sorrow held his King’s heart has eased with their time in the Shire, with the true affirmation of their love. Whatever it was that pushed him to the dwarf’s chambers was not of the loneliness that he felt, nor lust, nor any such emotion, it was for Thorin’s words, though they were written without the intention of ever being read. Within the carefully crafted letters was the sense of pride Thorin held for the hobbit; the unnerving care that he wore with pride. It had been his intention to make him his love, truly through ceremony and not through the parting of words or emotion.

Grazing his fingers over the words again, Bilbo chuckled to himself, before setting the paper back down in its rightful place, littered amongst a never ending pile of decrees and well-wishes.

Had he been reading it?

There was a brief pause from the time Bilbo stood to the time when he heard echoing whispers from behind the highly decorated entrance to the King’s chambers. Scurrying quickly to the door, and hiding behind a large curtain that was drawn to the side, the hobbit held his breath. He knew none but the dwarf would enter, but he only could hope to surprise the dwarf in a light hearted manner as opposed to startling him, thus alerting the guard waiting outside his door.

The stone opened with a low grumble that crawled across the floor, vibrations curling into Bilbo’s toes. Slow and heavy steps eased their way into the chamber before the stone sealed him in. The weight of heavy clothing could he heard dropping on the vanity and the breath of exhaustion filled the silent chambers.

Creeping with silent grace from his hiding spot, Bilbo edged nearer to the dwarf, his hands touching the Thorin’s shoulders with deft grace. The touch was lsight at first, like a feather pressed to the curve of his shoulders, but then the hobbit deepened the touch, fingers rubbing down and past the heavy fabric, curling over the contours of his shoulder blades, spreading and retracting before wrapping around his midsection, curled neatly beneath his arms. Bilbo pressed his body to Thorin’s back, cheek finding a place in the waterfall of hair that lined the center of his back. The curve between the shoulders remained perfect for the hobbit, as he leaned forward, savouring the touch.

“I came only to say goodnight,” The halfling whispered, squeezing tighter, the heavy scents of leather and tobacco lingering within the length of the King’s hair. “But now that I have, I only wish to linger a while.”

Bilbo allowed the silence of the room to hold his tongue still for a moment, body shivering in towards the surrounding warmth. “You looked weary today, and I know this is frowned upon but…” As the whispers left his lips the halfling was without words, not knowing fully how to explain his actions, nor to help ease the dwarf. “I thought that these moments may help ease your brow.”

Pulling away, despite how his heart caved inwards, Bilbo walked to the side of the dwarf, pressing his lips gently to the side of the King’s mouth, hand lingering on Thorin’s shoulder. “Though these times linger on, I endur for your love, for there is no other I dare share my heart with.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ask prompt from my Tumblr (politethief.tumblr.com) from the lovely Thorin (underthemistymountain.tumblr.com). Companion piece to Thaw of Winter's Chill. 
> 
> Prompt:Send me a diary entry and my character will react to finding it and reading it.
> 
> Diary Entery: Underthemistymountain.tumblr.com
> 
> Please take the time to review and comment and check out the main feature Thaw of Winter's Chill!


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